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Three long and weary months — yet not a whisper
THE VENETIAN GONDOLIER.
The same, January 15, 1825.
Here rest the weary oar ! - soft airs
Breathe out in the o'erarching sky;
A smile of peace : 'her noon is nigh.
Where the tall fir in quiet stands,
And waves, embracing the chaste shores,
Is heard the sound of dipping oars.
Swift o'er the wave the light bark springs,
Love's midnight hour draws lingering near ;
The young Venetian Gondolier.
Lo! on the silver-mirrored deep,
On earth, and her embosomed lakes,
From the thin cloud fair moonlight breaks.
Soft music breathes around, and dies
On the calm bosom of the sea;
Her vespers to her rosary.
At their dim altars bow fair forms,
In tender charity for those,
Have never found this calm repose.
The bell swings to its midnight chime,
Relieved against the deep blue sky.
To seek Genevra's balcony.
THE ANGLER'S SONG.
From the river's plashy bank,
And the twisted woodbine springs,
Upward speeds the morning lark
On his way the woodman sings.
On the dim and misty lakes
And the eagle 's on his cloud :-
And the rustling reeds pipe loud.
Where the embracing ivy holds
In the meadow's fenny land,
Silent with my rod I stand.
But when sultry suns are high
As it shades the water's edge,
Tangling with the river sedge.
When the eye of evening looks
And the wind sighs o'er the lea,
Lengthens by the greenwood tree.
Published in the Portland Advertiser, June 10, 1825.
They showed us near the outlet of Sebago, the Lover's Rock, from which an Indian maid threw herself down into the lake, when the guests were coming together to the marriage festival of her false-hearted lover. — Leaf from a Traveller's Journal.
There is a love that cannot die !
And some their doom have met
That rise, and burn, and set.
- and young — and bright - and brief.
There is a love that cannot die !
- it survives the grave;
And earth takes what it gave,
Its light is on the home of those
With us there are sad records left
Of life's declining day :
And how they passed away.
'Tis of an Indian maid, whose fate
Was saddened by the burst
The heart it filled at first.
It was a summer-day, and bright
The sun was going down :
Beneath the dark rock's frown,
She stood upon the rocky steep,
Grief had her heart unstrung,
Was heard the dirge she sung.
DIRGE OVER A NAMELESS GRAVE.
The United States Literary Gazette, March 15, 1825.
By yon still river, where the wave
Is winding slow at evening's close,
Its sadly-moving shadow throws.
O'er the fair woods the sun looks down
Upon the many-twinkling leaves,
Where darkly the green turf upheaves.
The river glides in silence there,
And hardly waves the sapling tree :
Is full of balm - but where is she !
They bade her wed a son of pride,
And leave the hopes she cherished long : She loved but one and would not hide
A love which knew a wrong.
And months went sadly on — and years :
And she was wasting day by day :
Were shed, that she should pass away.
Then came a gray old man, and knelt
With bitter weeping by her tomb :
That he had sealed a daughter's doom.
The funeral train has long past on,
And time wiped dry the father's tear! Farewell - lost maiden !- there is one
That mourns thee yet — and he is here.
A SONG OF SAVOY.
The same, same date.
As the dim twilight shrouds
The mountain's purple crest,
Are glowing in the west,
Faint is the goatherd's song,
And sighing comes the breeze:
Amid its bending trees —
Beneath the waving firs
The tinkling cymbals sound;
I see the dancers bound
And he is there, that sought
My young heart long ago!
He ne'er could leave me so.
Why comes he not? I call
In tears upon him yet ;
Than love, and then forget!
But see — he leaves the glade,
And beckons me away:
I cannot chide his stay.
THE INDIAN HUNTER.
The same, May 15, 1825.
When the summer harvest was gathered in,
He was a stranger there, and all that day
The winds of autumn came over the woods
The foot of the reaper moved slow on the lawn,
Then the hunter turned away from that scene,